A Dangerous Mission
by fleetwood-mouse
Summary: John has been selected for a covert operation in Afghanistan, but all is not as it seems. In order to protect him, Sherlock is forced to come out of hiding and reveal himself to John in a very unlikely place.
1. The Recruiter's Office

Nguyen didn't look at all like John had expected. Maybe his voice – grave and authoritative from his years of military service – had just seemed so much older on the phone, belying the youthful smoothness of his calm features, but that couldn't be all it was. Something kept tickling at the fringes of John's consciousness. The man had a hard edge to him – of course, most people in his position would – but with Nguyen in particular, it was accompanied by a sense of some latent thrumming just beneath his skin, an electric current concealed by a placid exterior. It left John ill at ease, and as they walked through the door, he found himself unconsciously gleaning through the details of the ascetic office, searching for a glimpse of some neglected truth.

Though long out of practice, John had developed better observational skills than most (_still nothing compared to – _naggedalittlevoice in the back of his mind before he quickly crushed it down), but Nguyen's office was utterly devoid of personality, providing John no insight into the strange feeling that he was unable to shake.

"Excuse me," came a voice, and both men turned. A young woman, military bearing, was standing in the doorway. "There's a phone call for you, sir. Very important."

Nguyen nodded. "Thank you, private," he said, and excused himself to take the call, instructing John to have a seat. The door clicked shut behind him. Alone in the office now, John pulled out the chair to sit, and that was when his heart stopped.

He jumped back in shock, nearly upsetting the chair. Catching it reflexively with his right hand, he leaned forward upon it to steady himself. This put him in the perfect position to stare, unbelieving, down at the pale face of the dead man who was crouched beneath the table. John could hear his pulse echoing in his ears and the world wavered around him. Everything was unfolding slowly, as if he were trying to move underwater.

"John!" hissed lips that John had last seen fallen open and slack and lifeless. "John, there's no time to explain, but I need you to do as I say."

"You – how can you –" John sputtered. The world threatened to buckle beneath his feet and he gripped the back of the chair tightly with both hands.

"John, please listen." John blinked twice and shook his head in disbelief. "John, it is imperative that you do exactly as I say. You are in significant danger. Breathe in deeply," (John followed the order without thinking) "and breathe out. Good, once more. In..."

The rhythmic whoosh of air into his lungs did nothing to answer any of the thousand questions pounding through John's brain, but it did make him feel somewhat steadier on his feet. He heard footsteps from the corridor, and in a burst of inspiration, he quickly whirled around to face the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to wipe the shock off his face, and lifted one hand to his chin in a contemplative pose.

John turned toward the door when he heard Nguyen enter, and answered his surprised expression with a very passable imitation of a man who had not just found his dead best friend hiding underneath a table in the office of an army recruiter.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said casually. "I was just admiring your..." Drawing a wide arc with his hand, John turned back toward the wall to see that (somewhat unsurprisingly) it held no artwork whatsoever; the picture frame that his mind had registered as such actually housed a diploma. He twisted his head toward the window, which looked out upon the building adjacent to this one and the few meters of dreary alleyway that separated them. "Just stretching my legs a bit," he finished lamely.

Nguyen nodded, clearly filing this interaction away for later reference (John reflected that this kind of unbalanced behaviour was sure to stand out in his notes on their meeting) and set a stack of papers down on the table.

"Very well, Dr. Watson. Have a seat," he invited.

John was very careful as he adjusted the chair and sat down. He rested his palms on the table's surface, crossing his thumbs and uncrossing them again before deciding to fold his hands and leave them in his lap in case they started trembling. _Stupid_, he could hear Sherlock's voice saying. _You've just been informed that you are in danger; this is the one situation in which you can be certain your hands will not shake. _His mouth was impossibly dry. He cleared his throat but no words were forthcoming. The conversation he had come here to have was now the furthest thing from his mind.

Nguyen met John's eyes across the table. "I assume you've taken some time to review the –" There was a knock at the door and the young woman from before entered, carrying a tray of tea. She set a cup before each of them. "Thank you, private; that will be all," he said distractedly. "Now, there were some topics which, due to their sensitive nature, we were unable to cover fully in the documents. I intend to brief you on these matters today."

It was then that John felt a hand on his knee. Just a brush, a gentle warning designed not to startle him into giving himself away, but still it was all he could do not to react, to look under the table and confirm the sight that had so shocked his eyes only moments ago. But he focused his attention on Nguyen and tried to nod in the right places as he felt Sherlock reach up and pluck his right hand out of his lap, tugging it quietly under the tabletop and turning his palm upwards in the shadows. The recruiter continued his explanation of some acts of resistance ("minor dust-ups, really") that had been flaring up near the base recently, adding cream and sugar to his tea and beginning to stir.

Sherlock gripped John's hand firmly and squeezed. Then John felt the tickle of Sherlock's index finger tracing across his palm, drawing a vertical line across his hypothenor muscles and then a semi-circle over the pad of his thumb. Bold, clear strokes. An uppercase letter 'D.' John could practically feel Sherlock's anxious impatience to see whether he had understood. He couldn't squeeze Sherlock's hand and still leave his palm open for writing, so he settled for wiggling his fingers in a come-hither motion against Sherlock's palm. Twice for yes, once for no – that was what they had decided upon, if John remembered correctly (and he had all faith that he did; he might not have anything resembling a Memory Palace in which to file away important information, but if Sherlock had asked him to remember it, no matter how long ago, it certainly remained safe).

Then, the writing came fast and firm and decisive. The D again, a wide circle, N, and T, and then Sherlock pressed his middle three fingers firmly into the center of John's palm – a stop. A new word, then. Another D, followed by the curves of an R, a vertical line, N and K and another press of three fingers.

**DONT. DRINK.**

All right. Once again, he scrunched his fingers against Sherlock's palm to indicate his understanding, and John could have sworn that he felt the tension rush out of Sherlock's arm, if only for a second. His long fingers were soon tracing another frantic message for John to decipher.

**D, line, D, press, U, press, S, line, G, N.**

Without thinking, John answered with a shake of his head, then froze, guilty. But Nguyen had put on a pair of spectacles to read the finer points aloud, and with his attention directed at the papers before him, he didn't appear to have noticed anything amiss. For the sake of appearances, John would be sure to do his best to stay on the same page of the contract, but even if he failed, even if he didn't come off as particularly bright or keen or responsible, what could it matter? He no longer needed to be chosen for this mission. If this really was happening, if Sherlock Holmes was alive, John could be certain that he did not plan on getting himself shipped back off to Afghanistan.

John scritched his fingers once for no, and make no mistake, Sherlock did relax this time.

**G, circle, circle, D.**

The ghost of a smile played across John's lips.

"...but I suppose that will hardly be out of the ordinary for you, Dr. Watson," Nguyen remarked with a wry grin of his own, looking down his glasses at John.

"Heh, no. Not at all." John cleared his throat and flipped to the next page when Nguyen did, following the words with his eyes and letting the droning voice wash over him. Sherlock's fingers rested on his palm, still but very warm – so much warmer than when John had last... but thinking about that filled his ears with a dizzying roar. Because John had watched as Sherlock fell, he had been knocked to the ground himself, and when he had fought his way to his feet and to Sherlock's side, his friend's eyes had been empty and the skin beneath John's fingers had been still.

John blinked twice, hard, and swallowed the lump in his throat. His hand moved quickly, before he could think about what he was doing, sliding and rotating in one smooth motion until his index and middle fingers rested on Sherlock's radial artery. He was used to taking his patient's pulses, and so it was by instinct that he began to count the beats of Sherlock's, still counting even as he felt the rest of the world slip away around him, nullified by the all-important thrum of life beneath his fingers. Blinking wasn't doing him much good anymore; John lowered his gaze toward the papers before him (knowing his face was probably much too close now) and allowed the text to blur before his eyes.

He felt the press of something against his knee. Solid, rounded bone – Sherlock's forehead? John gritted his teeth against the strange rush of emotion, and Sherlock pulled his wrist out of John's grip, shifting, rearranging until they were holding hands – not John's hand in his, but palm to palm, gripping firmly like two schoolchildren waiting to cross the street. John laced their fingers together and held tightly. He could still feel Sherlock's pulse throbbing in the spaces between their fingers (or maybe it was his own). They sat quietly like that and John felt a cool serenity descend upon him, soothing and calming his racing heart.

Rubbing his fingertips gently over Sherlock's knuckles, John asked Nguyen a simple question about the contract. As the recruiter turned back a few pages to give John a direct quote in answer, Sherlock responded by squeezing John's hand tightly – a little too tightly, crushing his fingers. John tapped frantically on the back of Sherlock's hand to indicate his pain and Sherlock loosened his grip. When John thanked Nguyen for his clarification, his voice was steady. Normal. Nguyen nodded and went on with his explanation.

Then, Sherlock pulled back slightly, just enough for his thumb to rest against John's palm. The angle was different and the movements more awkward as he began to write.

**J, circle, H, N. **

No particular message, no vital information to communicate – just his name, plain and plaintive. John squeezed gently and rubbed his thumb along the outer edge of Sherlock's index finger, stopping to rest in the web of his thumb. They were still for a moment before Sherlock began to write again, slow and deliberate.

**F, circle, R, G, line, V **– John jerked suddenly, pulling his hand away, desperate to stop the movement of Sherlock's fingers. This was too much, it was too raw, and Sherlock could not expect him to keep his composure, to remain calm if they were going to have this conversation now.

His heart beat wildly and he fought to calm himself against a flare of anger – for Sherlock disappearing and playing dead while John suffered on alone, and for his showing up now, derailing the situation in his infuriatingly controlling way and nearly forcing John to give himself away. But it was Sherlock and he was John's best friend and he was _alive_, for God's sake, and John could picture the chastened expression on his face perfectly, and he soon reached out in apology or maybe reassurance. Sherlock took his hand and John squeezed. When Sherlock squeezed back, John felt himself relax.

It was then, however, that John noticed Nguyen looking at him rather oddly. John raised his eyebrows and spread his lips into an almost-smile where the corners of his mouth didn't quite turn up and his teeth remained hidden. It was his 'sorry for the lunatic' smile, and as he felt it work its way across his face, he realized how much time had passed since he last used it. And for another realization fast on the tails of the first, it dawned on him how in this particular situation, the only lunatic he could be referring to was himself.

But Nguyen, to his credit, took this departure from normal behaviour rather gracefully, acting as if nothing had happened. "Now, I believe that I have explained the situation quite thoroughly," he said, "and if you don't have any pressing questions, I would like to move on and discuss the details of the arrangement we expect to make."

John felt Sherlock's body tense against his leg, the shaky stillness before a clap of thunder. "No, let's move along," he answered. "That's what I came here for, after all."

Sherlock's fingers began to move urgently across his palm, writing with vengeful purpose.

"Now, you may be wondering (**D**) why it is that we need (**circle**) to fill this position so urgently (**N**)," Nguyen said, looking down at John over his glasses. "It's hardly conventional (**T**) "to call up someone (**press**) who's been invalidated home, as surely you know."

John nodded.

"But what we're (**T**) looking for is... (**R**) at the risk of sounding theatrical, (**U**) a very specific set of skills (**S**). Medical and surgical knowledge (**T**) is the top priority, as it says (**press**) in the documents (**H**), but the operation would certainly (**line**) benefit from the experience you gained (**M**) in the RNF."

Sherlock pressed his fingers forcefully into John's palm, emphasizing his point, and John squeezed yes, okay, okay. Sherlock pressed once more for good measure.

"Ah, yes, thank you," John replied, nodding his assent, and Nguyen continued. "Another reason that your name was put forward," he said, with a hint of a smile, "is that the commanding officer is a tremendous fan of your blog. And so am – well, I should say I _was_ as well." He raised his eyebrows. "While we are on the subject... may I offer my condolences."

Under the table, Sherlock squeezed his hand pitifully. John was struck by the absurdity of the situation and he had to fight back the urge to laugh out loud. If Nguyen had enjoyed the stories of their past adventures so much, what might he have to say about the one that was currently unfolding beneath his desk? John bit his tongue and cleared his throat.

"Thank you," he said, keeping his voice soft and low. "But that was all a long time ago." He ran his thumb gently over the ridge of Sherlock's knuckles.

"Nonetheless..." Nguyen began, and the word hung in the air awkwardly. John gave a solemn nod, and Nguyen began speaking again. "In any case, Dr. Watson, those are the reasons why we decided to contact you, despite your being out of the service for so long. And now that you have an understanding of the background, I hope that I can begin to explain the situation."

He paused and looked John in the eye as if to confirm that the gravity and secrecy of the situation were understood. "There is mounting evidence to suggest that the insurgents have begun testing a new biological weapon."

Sherlock jerked indignantly and began to scrawl furiously on John's palm again. **L, line, E, S. **He pressed his fingers deeply into the center of John's palm and then wrote the word again for good measure.

"Although we do not believe the... condition that this weapon induces to be contagious, its symptoms are severe and rather alarming. That is why, as I have already emphasized, surgical experience – particularly in the field of amputation – is absolutely essential. I also believe that your ability to collect intelligence would prove very valuable to this mission; you are aware, I am sure of the unique position medics hold in gaining the trust of the locals. Your previous experience in Afghanistan would have taught you as much."

John nodded.

"The sensitivity of this operation means that it is absolutely imperative that the team can maintain complete calm under extremely _dangerous_ conditions." Nguyen raised his eyebrow at John pointedly, almost as if the word 'danger' was something he expected John to write down. "Of course, we will take every possible precaution to ensure the safety of the team, but I must inform you that it will not..." he smiled wryly, "be dull."

Sherlock's fingers were still moving frantically against his palm. John had caught a few words, but it was going too fast and he had to tune him out for the most part. He tried a few times to stop the frenzied writing, to communicate to Sherlock that he understood that Nguyen was lying – and how dense did Sherlock think he was? – and even to flip their hands so he could ask the questions, but Sherlock was obstinate in his ticklish messages, almost all of which were too fast for John to read. This was just like him. John realized he had given in, fallen back into the frustrating position of letting Sherlock drive – a familiar role that, to his surprise, made him feel almost comfortable.

"But unfortunately, Dr. Watson, this is all the information that I can provide you at this time. You will be given a more detailed briefing upon your arrival in Afghanistan. If you have any questions, now is the time to ask... although I cannot promise you that I will be able to answer them."

Under the table, Sherlock seemed to be in a state of near panic. John was doing his best to ignore him and focus on Nguyen, but he caught a bit of a word that looked to be 'Moriarty,' or something very close. He relegated this piece of information to the back of his mind and pressed onward. "Actually, I'm not much for questions," he replied, trying to stall for time, "but there is something that I probably should tell you."

Sherlock suddenly went very still. "By all means," said Nguyen.

"Things are a little bit different than when we spoke on the phone on Friday," John continued, scrambling frantically to construct a decent lie. "You see, a bit of a family emergency has come up, and I'm afraid I may not be able to..."

"I'm sorry," Nguyen interrupted, "Please forgive me for prying, but I was given to understand that family was not a key factor in your decision-making process."

"Yes, well," John stumbled, "it's my sister, Harriet. She's in... well, she's in quite a way, and I'm not sure I'd be comfortable leaving her alone in London right now." Nguyen's eyebrows were raised and John suddenly felt glad that he had decided to go for a lie with a truth at the core; he didn't have much faith in his ability to deceive, especially not feeling as exposed as he did now. "You see, she's always struggled with the bottle, and things have been particularly bad recently..." Here he lowered his eyes and looked back up at Nguyen again.

"If something were to happen to her after I left, I don't think I could forgive myself." Watching Nguyen's eyebrows furrow, John wondered if he was selling it too much, and he backpedaled a little. "But, of course I am still interested in the mission. To be perfectly honest, it sounds almost too good to be true – it's just that I don't think I can leave London while my sister is like this. I can try to encourage her to get help, to get into a program, so she won't be alone, and then maybe I can think about it, but for the time being... I'm sorry, but I just can't give you a 'yes,' right now."

Nguyen narrowed his eyes and gave a little sigh. "I must say, Doctor Watson, I am quite disappointed," he began, removing his wire-framed glasses and setting them on the table. "I was informed that your participation was certain at this point, that signing the contract was little more than a formality.

Sherlock's movements were frantic again, and John tried to focus on what Nguyen was saying as well. He could feel himself grimace with concentration as Sherlock's fingers twisted over his palm, furious and demanding. **BE CAREFUL**,he was writing, and Nguyen was saying something about a call he would have to make, some higher-ups who would be very unhappy. **NO CABS**, wrote Sherlock, and that was when it crashed down upon John. He had been so overwhelmed processing the impossible sequence of events that unfolding around him so as not to realize it until now, but there it was.

Sherlock's fingers spelled out **GO HOME**. Of course, now the meeting was over – he and Nguyen had nothing left to talk about, did they? He was going to have to leave now and Sherlock would not be walking out with him. He squeezed Sherlock's hand desperately, and Sherlock squirmed, struggling to retain his writing surface. Unable to help himself, John clung tighter. Sherlock rapped his knuckles and John gave in.

**SOON**, wrote Sherlock. **OK?**

John bit down on his lip for a second and then pressed his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth. He signaled a yes, and Sherlock's grip relaxed for a second, giving John the opportunity to flip his wrist and trace his index finger across Sherlock's palm. If he was in as much danger as Sherlock said he was, then maybe they couldn't make promises, they couldn't be sure they'd see each other again, but John had one thing he had to make clear.

**NEVER**, he wrote, forming each letter with painstaking precision. "Well, I suppose I'll be waiting for your call," Nguyen said resentfully. **DOUBTED**, traced John.

"I'll keep you posted as best I can," John assured him. **YOU**. Sherlock's grip was suddenly so tight that John's fingers cried out in protest but he just squeezed back as best he could. He struggled to keep his voice even, and he spoke carefully and purposefully, making sure to be a little louder than strictly necessary. "Thank you so much for today," he said, running a thumb over Sherlock's knuckles. "I hope you understand how grateful I am... that you found me. That you uh, chose me. For this mission."

John let Sherlock's hand drop and he stood up, pushing his chair out behind him. Nguyen extended his hand and John shook it firmly, fearing suddenly that the warmth or moisture of his palm could give them away, but Nguyen's face was a blank mask of unreadable courtesy.

And to John's great surprise, his hands cooperated as he slowly pushed his chair back in, and his eyes even obeyed him by not lingering on the dark space beneath the table. When he stepped back, his knees bore his weight without buckling or swaying, and although his mind and his heart and the pit of his stomach screamed their refusal with every movement, his numb legs carried him step by step across the small office, where Nguyen closed the door behind him.


	2. John's Flat

John was seated at the kitchen table, already several cups into a pot of tea. The radio blared away in the background. He vaguely remembered turning it on (if he couldn't say exactly why) but even when he was able to tear his thoughts away from what had happened that morning and focus his attention on the broadcast, the words made no sense to him. They failed to fall into any semblance of order, just hovering and careening recklessly off each other in the space above his head, and he couldn't pick out their meaning.

He drummed his fingers on the table and wiped up a stray droplet of milk. What was he supposed to do? He had left Nguyen's office, he had come home and now here he was, waiting, because Sherlock had –

Sherlock had... Something inside his skull began to feel very heavy and he let his head hang forward to accommodate the new weight. He breathed in through his nose.

It was strange to have a new memory of Sherlock. A fresh, true one, still uncoloured by his desperately calling it up and picking it over every chance he got. It felt like spotting a familiar face in a crowd in a foreign city, at once familiar and unexpected, grounding and disorienting.

But Sherlock had told him to go home, and so John had. And Sherlock had said that he would come later. Or hadn't he? Whatever he had said, it was three hours later, and here was John, still waiting – but what had time ever meant to Sherlock? Three hours of waiting, three fucking years of thinking him dead... Back at 221B, the space of a few hours would not have been enough for Sherlock to notice that John had gone out. And now, after three years of knowing that Sherlock was buried away for good in a place where he would never stir or fidget, never open his eyes and jolt abruptly back into the real world and into a conversation with the empty space where John had been, John found himself chain-drinking Darjeeling and fretting over three short hours.

It was almost laughable. And yet here John was, and he was still taking Sherlock's directions without hesitation. Sitting at home waiting for Sherlock to come back and shed some light on all of this for him, so that then John could call him brilliant and incredible and a miracle, and like as not fall to his knees in his grief and joy. He couldn't stop his mind from racing, suddenly aching again for answers he had long since given up for dead.

But wait… Sherlock had told him to go _home_ – and John had come here? This wasn't "home" to Sherlock (and recently John could barely call it one either) – surely he had meant Baker Street. God, how could John have been so stupid? Sherlock probably didn't even know that he lived here.

No, it was _Sherlock_ – of course he knew where John lived; Sherlock knew everything. Or, well, he knew anything that he cared to know, anything important enough not to delete (provided it had been interesting enough for him to see in the first place, of course) – and who could say what Sherlock would deem important enough to keep? John sighed. But Mycroft knew that he lived here. Mary had insisted on keeping his name on the Christmas card list, appalled at John's apparent willingness to sever one of his last ties to his late best friend, imploring him to forgive how repulsively self-serving and traitorous Mycroft had proved to be. Still, it was certain that Mycroft would have John's new address filed away somewhere.

But did Mycroft knowing mean that Sherlock would know as well? Not necessarily, John supposed. He couldn't even be entirely sure whether Mycroft's knowing made it more or less likely. Their relationship had always been difficult to understand, but now the question seemed downright impossible.

Maybe he should ring up Mrs. Hudson, John thought, and ask her if... ask her if what, exactly? What could he possibly say to explain himself? And even if the words did come, revealing themselves to John from on high like some bloody covenant, he wasn't certain that he could muster up the courage to say them. This situation – which, granted, he barely understood at all – seemed so delicate, so incredibly improbable that he was afraid to do anything that could conceivably upset its precarious balance. And he was afraid (though he couldn't imagine ever admitting it) that if he were to include another person in this mess – if he were to speak the words aloud – it would pop this fragile bubble which could only be a delusion. He decided to give it another half hour; then he could think about Mrs. H again.

It was then that John thought he heard footsteps coming up the staircase. He cocked his head and trained his ear toward the sound. Definitely footsteps. He knew it was unlikely to be any of the other tenants; his flat was on the topmost floor of three and the only one on that floor to boot, and now that he was alone, he'd really been keeping to himself – he didn't think any of his neighbours felt they knew him well enough to come up asking for a cup of sugar or an egg.

No, if he was truly hearing those footsteps, whose could they be but Sherlock's? It wasn't just that Sherlock's sudden reappearance had so jarred John as to shake the names of his every other acquaintance from his head – there simply was next to nobody else who might drop in on him like this. He got up to put the kettle on again, and as he set it back on the stovetop, there was a knock at the door.

It could be a Jehovah's Witness, he thought as he crossed the living room to check the door. It could always be a Jehovah's Witness. But it was useless to pretend; he knew those footsteps and he knew that knock. Why he would recognize the knock was beyond him – Sherlock had never been the type to ask permission; if he wanted to get in, he simply entered. It was entirely possible that John had never once heard Sherlock knock in his life, but all the same, he felt that he knew that knock. In it, he fancied he could hear Sherlock's long jittery fingers and bony wrists, his pale skin, his tics and his rages and his pale, grey eyes.

John's ribs were tight around his heart and lungs. The doorknob was solid, material in his grasp, and when the door had open, it _was_ Sherlock there in front of him. Paler and thinner than he had been, looking decidedly older now that John was getting his first clear look at him. His hair was cropped close now – not quite military short – but even without the wild curls, it was unmistakably Sherlock. Not a Jehovah's, not Harry on a drunk, not the flat's previous resident back in town and asking to come in for a quick look around.

John nodded cordially and stepped back, opening the door wide enough for Sherlock to enter. He didn't trust his voice.

Sherlock kept his coat on when he stepped inside, though he would have to have been too hot. The coat was almost entirely unlike the one he had used to wear, the one that John rather thought he might have been buried in – God, nothing made sense right now. This one was shorter, waist-length, and by no standards could it be called bespoke; drab green, it was cheap and downright shabby. Couldn't afford to be recognized, could he? That particular coat would have been too much of a giveaway. And maybe there could be a money aspect to it as well. But that seemed less likely; Sherlock had never seemed to hurt for money before, and his new scarf was a deep, rich brown made of some soft-looking, lush fabric. He might be cultivating a scruffy look in staid colors, but he still wanted something posh and lovely against his skin underneath. The bastard. Shopping for scarves made of cashmere or some shit while John was –

"John," Sherlock breathed, and his voice was hoarse. John snapped back into focus, studying his friend. Sherlock's face and body language indicated extreme fatigue, but his eyes were maddeningly translucent, revealing no clue as to his state of mind. There was blood beneath his fingernails, John noted dully.

His exhaustion was almost palpable – he was nearly swaying on his feet, and the sight of him was so pitiful, heart-rending, and so utterly welcome that all John wanted to do was fold Sherlock in his arms and support him until his own legs gave way beneath him. Which felt like it could be any second now.

The wavering shriek of the kettle pierced the air, startling John. "I've made tea," he observed, as if realizing it for himself. He was startled to hear how normal his voice sounded. "Why don't we sit down in the kitchen?"

As Sherlock followed him the few short steps across his living room, John found himself quite unable to look away. The doctor in him was concerned, on the alert for signs that Sherlock was about to collapse right there in front of him, while the blogger in him, and the friend, could do nothing but drink in the sight of him, not daring to cast his eyes away even a brief moment.

At the table, they sat silently across from each other, John trying to fix every detail in his memory, still unable to react, to feel. Sherlock drained his tea in one draught like a tonic and gave a deep sigh. He glared at the kettle on the stovetop like a smudge upon a photograph that his scorn could erase altogether. He turned the cup over and over in his hands (the wedding china – why _had_ John taken out the wedding china?), scrutinizing it as if it were an artifact from some ancient civilization.

John cleared his throat and offered the teapot; Sherlock placed the cup back in its saucer and allowed John to pour for him. The first cup appeared to have fortified him a bit; he looked stronger, more grounded. John's brain was turning over and over with all the questions he wanted to ask. It seemed entirely possible that if he opened his mouth, they would all come flowing out at once, like so much water out of a faucet. It was equally likely that he wouldn't be able to form words at all. He waited quietly, watching Sherlock's eyes as he completed his inventory of the small flat.

Sherlock took a sip from his new cup, replaced it in its saucer, and began to speak. "You will forgive me if I don't explain everything to your satisfaction; I'm afraid our time may be very short."

John nodded his understanding and stared at the ghost seated across from him.

"Moriarty's web was vast," Sherlock began, "and after he pushed me into doing what I did, I went into hiding, and I have spent the three years since then hunting his men down one after another. As I explained this morning, it was what I needed to do to protect you, and to clear my name in advance of my return."

This morning? Sherlock hadn't given him any explanation at all. John racked his brain. Or could that have been what he was writing so frantically in the last minutes of their meeting? Did he really expect John to have caught all that?

Sherlock continued on, John's puzzlement not registering. "Colonel Moran was one of them – Moriarty's right hand man and the most elusive of them all, a great hunter in his own right. As such, he was the last one remaining. Not only did he manage to elude me for so long but he was also able to concoct this secret mission as a ploy to lure me out of hiding, using you as bait. Under the cover of re-enlisting, he would have had you voluntarily sever all your ties with everyone here in London, and disappear with no questions asked, no eyes askance, no one to even think about coming looking for you."

"Except for you?" John asked.

"Yes, he could be sure that I would," Sherlock replied, "and if I did not, he would have attempted to learn my location from you using whatever means available to him. Torture, for instance, is a method he particularly favors. But you understand, then, why I was unable to reveal myself to you until now. As it is, Moran could only suspect that I would come for you – surely, many of them did suspect you knew where I was – but because your performance was so flawless, so natural, they had no real reason to believe that you knew I still lived and they surmised that their best bet was to use you as bait. But if you had known, John, there would have been no way for me to keep you safe. Do you understand?"

John nodded numbly and studied the steam rising up from his tea. Three years. Sherlock's voice was unchanged – the same cadence and impossible speed, the same theatrics, the way he pursued a thought relentlessly through the words to the end of his sentence, stopping only for John's periodic agreement, encouragement, or praise – just to launch back in as soon as the affirmation came. John's ears felt enormous just listening to him and he imagined he could feel Sherlock's voice inside them, a physical presence, crowding out his thoughts. Three fucking years.

"I had been tracking him for some time," continued Sherlock, "but today was the first time I was able to get close enough to him without putting you in undue danger. So I... _gained access_ to his office," (John was still familiar enough with Sherlock's euphemisms to hazard a guess that this may not have been by entirely legal means) "and waited for you to arrive, at which point I had a call placed so that I could ensure a moment alone to reveal myself and warn you. I could give you instructions so that you would not fall into his trap, and then, after you left, I was able to dispose of him, although regrettably I did fail to extract some key information that would have –"

"Wait a minute," John interjected, holding up a hand. "You disposed of him? What do you mean?"

Sherlock blinked. "I killed him. I killed Moran, John."

"Oh, so you've been to Dublin, then?" John sputtered. "Because he's not here, Sherlock. He couldn't meet with me – he was called away suddenly." _Sherlock_. God, the name sounded so strange on his tongue. It occurred to John just how few times he had actually spoken his friend's name in the past few years, how foolishly impossible the simple task had been. He was sure he could count the number of times on his fingers, maybe even on one hand.

"What are you talking about?" demanded Sherlock.

"The man in the office this morning – that wasn't Moran. Unless you've been to Dublin and back since then, you've killed someone else entirely. Nguyen. Next in command, I'd wager."

Sherlock plopped the cup unceremoniously back into its saucer and breathed out through his nose. John could practically see the whirl of data behind his irises and he wondered idly what he would do if he discovered he had taken a life he didn't intend to – what that might feel like to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh. "Then we may have even less time than I feared," Sherlock said, and his voice was soft. "That could mean that he knew how close I was, that he found out somehow. We can only hope that the police arrive before they do."

"The poli – what are you talking about?" John asked.

"We need to act now," Sherlock concluded, pushing back the chair and getting to his feet. He cocked his head toward the closed door across the living room. "Is that the bedroom?" he asked, charging ahead without waiting for an answer.

John followed him, stumbling slightly and then steadying himself after his foot caught on the throw rug before the doorway. He leaned on the doorframe and flicked on the lights to see Sherlock standing before the dresser with the drawers thrown open, rummaging through their contents and tossing them pell-mell around the room.

"Sherlock, what on earth are you doing?" John demanded.

"Making it look like a break-in," Sherlock answered simply, tossing a few pairs of socks over his shoulder. "Any burglar would check your drawers for valuables – almost everyone has something hidden away there. Think, John!"

Letting a white t-shirt fly, his attention suddenly zeroed in on the open drawer and its contents, and he frowned, plucking a flimsy bit of pale fabric from its depths. A slip. Mary's. How had that gotten mixed in with John's things? And how had John gone so long without coming across it?

Sherlock set it aside distastefully and clicked his tongue once against the roof of his mouth. "Is there... are there any places you would like me to avoid?" he asked hesitantly.

"Um, no," John stammered, startled by the consideration. Sherlock knew? But _of course_ Sherlock knew. It was odd that he'd think to ask for permission but of course he would know. "All of Mary's clothes are gone. Or they should be. It ought to be fine."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "That doesn't make any sense," he said disapprovingly.

"I'm sorry?" inquired John.

Sherlock sighed and let his hands fall to his sides. "She's been gone at least two months, judging by the state of your hair. No woman would let her husband go that long without getting it cut, and you're a military man – it's not a style you would prefer, so there must be an emotional component – meaning you're depressed and you've let it go. But you haven't given up all hope that she'll come back – you've left the flat decorated in her things. It's a long time to hold out hope, but you're a good man; you'll be committed to working things out with her."

"But if she's taken her clothes – all of her clothes? – then she's got somewhere she's staying permanently. She could be at her mother's, but it's doubtful – she wouldn't want to move house twice, so until she was sure she'd be leaving you for good, she wouldn't have bothered coming back for everything – she'd just take the basics. I'd say that she's living with the man whom she left you for, but if she'd come back for all her clothes – less this... garment, of course – she'd have taken the rest of her things from around the flat as well. Knick knacks and all that – I know you didn't buy that dreadful seashell painting yourself. And that fancy tea set, which she'd have more use for than you would."

"So you must have gotten rid of her clothes yourself... and posted them to her, maybe, because you wouldn't bin them or donate them no matter how rotten she was to you." Sherlock bit his lip. "So she hasn't come back to your flat since she left. She won't? If it was something you did to her, she might refuse – she might insist you go through the effort of returning it all to her yourself – but what would you have done to make her so angry? You're not the type to be unfaithful, and you're upset enough with her that you've gone off to re-enlist... It doesn't add up!" He threw up his hands in frustration. "Why did she leave you, John?"

John wet his lips. "Um, lupus," he said, looking Sherlock in the eye. "It was lupus. And it's been four months, now."

Sherlock just stared at him, frozen in place. There _was_ always something, John supposed. There had to be. It was rarely something this significant, though. Sherlock's mouth was open, but for once he didn't seem to have any response ready.

"Would you like me to bang up the door a little?" John offered. "Or would you have broken in through the window?"

The question seemed to unpause Sherlock. He licked his lips, considering. "Doesn't matter," he decided. "Whichever's easier to repair."

"The door, then," John determined. He turned and left Sherlock standing alone beside the bed that he had shared with Mary. "The lock's been funny for a while," he called back over his shoulder. "Maybe if there was a break-in, the landlord might get around to changing it for me."

He heard something hit the wall with a plasticky thud. "Knock over some furniture while you're at it," Sherlock shouted back. "Make it look realistic! But do take care of the door first – it won't do to have someone show up and find you taking a screwdriver to your own lock."

John checked the hallway for any signs of life and, finding none, bent down to go to work on the latch. It was a good job he only had to make the lock look picked – cat burglar skills like these were something he had never really managed to pick up from Sherlock. He chipped at the plating until he judged it to look suitably battered, and went back inside, leaving the door very slightly ajar behind him. He picked the reading lamp up off the side table and – he liked it quite a bit – laid it gently on its side on the floor. He adjusted its shade to leave it visibly askew. There.

Now he could afford to be a bit rougher. He knocked the table on its side and flipped a cushion over the back of the couch. Maybe he had been reading there when Sherlock – the burglar, rather – had burst in, brandishing a gun. There was already a half-finished spy novel on the table. John would have stood up, raising his hands in surrender. He thought a moment before dropping an afghan on the floor in front of the couch, just where it would have fallen in a wooly blue pile at his feet.

He glanced around the flat and grabbed his unfinished cup of tea from the kitchen, setting it carefully on the living room coffee table. John gave Sherlock's cup a cursory rinse (no time for soap) and placed it in the dish drain. There was no way this would fool the world's only consulting detective, but it should suffice for now. A second, unfinished cup on the table, though – even Anderson was likely to notice something like that. And Moriarty's men... John didn't want to think about what they might notice.

He examined the path from the front door to the bedroom, searching for the route they would have taken, the traces they would have left. Sherlock emerged from the bedroom and cast his eyes over the scene. He delivered a few good kicks to the throw rug that John had tripped on earlier – of course! – and knocked the landline phone off its hook.

"Not bad," he said, indicating John's work in the couch area. "But if you were reading, you ought to switch the radio to music."

"Right," cursed John. "Out of practice, you know." He adjusted the frequency and found a station playing classical music.

Sherlock nodded approvingly. "Good," he murmured. "But I'm afraid we'll only have a few minutes by now – let's take our places and I'll try to get you looking the part."

The part? John was puzzled, but he followed Sherlock into the bedroom nonetheless. Sherlock frowned ponderously at the walls and the bed and the dresser, but finally his eyes seemed to alight upon something satisfactory.

"There," he said, gesturing toward the front corner of the room. "Stand between the dresser and the side wall. Face me, and when they come in, look past me to the door."

"Got it," said John, taking up his position. Sherlock stepped forward, looking around the room as he pawed experimentally through the drawers for a few seconds, examining the tableaux. This first test seemed to pass muster. He put a hand to his hip, and a second later, he was cocking a gun at John.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John breathed.

Sherlock didn't appear to have noticed that John had said anything at all, and he returned the weapon to the holster at his waist, nodding contentedly. "Good," he said. "Or adequate, rather. It should be enough to fool them." He then directed his attention to John (had he been addressing his reflection in the mirror until then?), eyes sharp and clear. "John," he began, "now I need you to cry."

John laughed aloud. "What?" he asked, uncomprehending.

"Can you cry on command, John? I need you to look distressed, frightened," repeated Sherlock, agitated. "Make your eyes red, get your face flushed – that sort of thing."

"Right," John replied, and – feeling rather foolish – he raised his arms to his face and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and began to rub. It didn't feel very effective, but he dug his fingers into his cheeks and wiped roughly at his nose, trying to will color into his skin.

"For God's sake," muttered Sherlock under his breath, and John opened his eyes to see that Sherlock was still standing in the same place, staring at him impatiently. John considered telling him that not all people considered it a good thing to be a perfectly practiced emotional manipulator, but he had barely opened his mouth when Sherlock took a step toward him, biting his lower lip and looking around with uncertainty.

"John," he said, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He closed his eyes for a full second, and when he opened them again, they were full of pleading. "John, please forgive me."

John felt a peculiar weakness overtake him. His words dried up in his throat and he felt paralyzed.

"Please, John," Sherlock whispered, taking another step in John's direction. John didn't think he could move, but all the same, he felt a bizarre urge to swing his fist, to show Sherlock where he could stick his sorrys, to lash out and make him feel John's pain. But the man John had buried was standing impossibly, dizzyingly close to him now and John's mind was going round in circles – he couldn't remember the last time they would have stood this close to each other – and he didn't punch Sherlock, John would have died himself before he watched his fist shatter that jaw.

As Sherlock approached him, John noted how unnatural his movements seemed. He moved in the hesitant, aping manner of a child called up to help in a magician's act on stage, repeating the movements he had observed with no idea whether they would have the same effect. He lifted his arms slowly, awkwardly, and wrapped them around John, weakly at first and then squeezing tighter.

Disbelieving all the while, John returned the embrace, pulling Sherlock to him. He pressed his face into Sherlock's chest and shoulder, knowing he was being manipulated even as the sobs were drawn from his body. He could feel Sherlock's cheek pressed into the crown of his head. His breath came in hiccoughs and his chest burned and he felt every inch a fool. But he fought to get himself under control, and as he did so, he began to realize that Sherlock was trembling against him. John disengaged and stepped back to see Sherlock raise a hand to his face.

"It doesn't make any sense for my eyes to be red," Sherlock scoffed, rubbing at the offending organ. "Have you ever heard of a burglar crying during a break-in?"

John swallowed the lump in his throat and forced a smile. "Maybe you stubbed your toe on the doorframe," he suggested. "I could add that to my story if you like."

Sherlock gave a small huff of laughter and let his other arm fall, fingers trailing along John's wrist until he reached John's hand and took it firmly in his own. John squeezed and he felt a bit of the tension ease itself from his muscles. He sighed and they stood there quietly.

It wasn't as if they had made a habit of holding hands before – until yesterday, there had really only been the one time they were cuffed to each other – and John hadn't exactly been the type to show physical affection to his friends in the past, but the contact felt natural and soothing somehow. It felt like the old days again; he was joined indelibly to Sherlock, his partner in crime, and the two of them were united against the world. They were going to protect each other and things were going to work out because they were the good guys and because John trusted in Sherlock and his plan and would follow him to the end of the earth. In this moment where words failed him, John was content to stand quietly with Sherlock's hand in his, breathing and remembering.

Sherlock cleared his throat and raised his eyes to John's. "You'd better start thinking of your story, then," he said softly. "They've just parked their car out front a moment ago."

"Right," replied John absently and squeezed Sherlock's hand again. He couldn't hear anything different from the street outside – they were three floors up, so it was a wonder Sherlock had been able to pick up anything at all – but shortly, he began to hear footsteps on the stairs outside. Not the familiar soft tread of Mary coming home from work, but a charging, rushing clamour.

Sherlock let out a short sigh of relief. "The police, then – not Moran." He gave John's hand one last squeeze and let it drop from his grasp. "You ready then?" he asked.

John nodded his assent and it was then that everything erupted. In an instant, Sherlock went from zero to sixty, and he was screaming, roaring, swearing at John at the top of his voice, waving his pistol wildly. John supposed later that they would have had to start early to make it seem realistic – if they had remained silent until the police were right there, something surely would have seemed amiss – but his surprise was real and he just barely had time to reflect that between his shock and the very real tears he had been crying not a moment before, he wouldn't have to do very much acting at all.

And then the police were upon them, feet pounding through John's sitting room, guns drawn. Sherlock appeared quite rattled and not very bright; he put up a struggle for show while, in reality, allowing them to disarm him quite easily. Their apparent leader, a stocky black man whom John did not know, deftly overpowered Sherlock, moving with surprising quickness to bend him over John's bed and cuff his hands behind his back.

John heaved an overwrought sigh of relief and, clasping his hands to his chest, allowed himself to slump bonelessly against the wall. He remembered how Sherlock worked; now that he had allowed the police to render him defenseless and incapacitated, he could begin to struggle more wholeheartedly without having to fear retaliation with excessive force. So he began to kick and lash out with renewed urgency, screaming away all the while in an American accent (a convincing one at that, though John couldn't recall having heard him use it before). The unfamiliar voice felt brash and jarring in the small bedroom.

"Who do you think you are?" Sherlock was yelling. "How can you do this to me?! Don't you know who I am? I'm calling my lawyer!"

The stocky inspector wrenched him to his feet and pointed him toward the door.

"No, wait – I'm calling my brother!" Sherlock jerked his head to meet John's eyes. "You'll be sorry – you'll all be sorry when my brother finds out about this!"

Another officer grabbed his shoulder and they led him away, ranting and swearing like a sailor. The third member of their squad approached John delicately and got him seated at the kitchen table with a fresh cuppa to shakily recount what had happened. The officer had an impressively reassuring bedside manner. He told John that they'd be calling him in for further statements once the processing was done, but good job they'd gotten everything written down while it was all still fresh, eh? He asked if John had any family nearby or a place he'd rather stay and John answered that he should be just fine at home.

All in all, it didn't take very long, and the officer left John with the promise that patrol cars would be passing by during the night to keep an eye on the area. John drained his cup (the officer had grabbed Sherlock's cup from the dish drain for himself and John had bitten his tongue, hardly able to tell him it hadn't been properly washed) and sat quietly at the table for a few moments, collecting his thoughts, before taking out his mobile.

Mycroft had never cared much for texting, he thought as he pulled up the message window. That was why Sherlock did his best never to communicate with him in any other way. John had used to find it juvenile, but now he felt a little twinge of pleasure at disregarding Mycroft's preferences, showing him just how little respect John Watson had for him.

Of course Mycroft didn't look at John as he did his younger brother; what might seem a deliberate slight coming from Sherlock would likely be interpreted as simple ignorance from John. But that was all very well – if John were to start worrying about what the Holmes brothers thought of his intellect, he'd hardly have any time left in the day to run around cleaning up their messages.

"_Bail out your brother,_"he spelled out, and gave it a good, hard look. No point going into detail, he supposed. Mycroft was certainly capable of figuring it all out. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment as he tried to remember whether he had changed his number in the past three years. He couldn't be sure, so he added the letters "JW" – to be safe – and hit Send.

(Author's note: This time, I tried to proofread against red_adam's incredibly useful "Brit-pick Hints for Sherlock Authors" (look it up on AO3!) but all remaining errors of any kind are mine and mine alone. Please let me know if you notice anything wrong.

And thank you all for your lovely feedback on the first chapter! I've worked out an arc for the story overall so I'm hoping to get the next part up faster ^_^ )


	3. Out of Gaol

Notes: A day has elapsed since the events of Chapters 1 and 2.  
Sorry this one took so long! Full notes at the end :)

The bored woman barely seemed to see Jeremy Sigerson as she shoved the shallow box at him across the table. She didn't appear to notice his battered knuckles or the blood caked around his nose and in the corner of his mouth, much less recognise him from his picture in old news stories. But that suited Sigerson just fine, having been in hiding as long as he had, and he was more than happy return the courtesy of her disinterest.

He frowned down at the contents of the box. That mobile phone was new to him; he certainly had not been carrying it on his person when he had allowed the police to apprehend him the previous night. It was flashing green with a notification – Mycroft, of course. As a gift, it was unsolicited and entirely unnecessary, but it was undeniably a useful object to have. He took lightly it in his hand as if it felt familiar, made a token show of checking the text (actually a voicemail which of course he had no intention of listening to), and pocketed the thing, hiding as best he could his distaste for his brother's imperialistic benevolence.

The remaining objects were no surprise: his sleek pocket knife was there, though the gun was gone (Mycroft could have recovered it for him with a little effort, he was sure), and there was also a worn black wallet containing cash and a few forged cards, a Canadian passport, and a crumpled packet of Fisherman's Friend – some kind of sucking candy or gum could go a long way toward fleshing out a persona that would otherwise be seen through in no time at all.

It was a pity about the gun, Sigerson reflected, though it had certainly served its purpose. He'd have hated to be caught without one last night if it had been Moran's men rather than the police, and he could be almost certain that John's illegal service revolver would not have been retained in a household where he had planned one day to have children. But the gun's utility as a weapon wasn't the only reason he had filched it from Moran's – or rather, Nguyen's office; it had also afforded him some valuable information. The police had known to investigate the flat of Nguyen's last afternoon appointment for an _armed_ suspect (who they'd logically assume to be John, at least initially), meaning that whoever it was that discovered Nguyen's body (probably the private who had brought the tea) had not called the police until after checking his desk drawers to see whether anything was missing. That in turn demonstrated that they thought Nguyen's death could have been the result of a burglary, and the fact that they would even consider that theory under the circumstances signified that not everyone associated with that office was aware of Moran's scheme. It didn't tell Sigerson how many people he was actually up against, but it could certainly inform his decisions.

"All set, then?" droned the woman. She couldn't have seemed less interested if she tried. Sigerson nodded, and her male counterpart emerged from behind the counter to escort him outside.

–-

As his eyes adjusted to the dark night outside, he shed Sigerson like snakeskin, letting his bearing, his manner of speech, his walk fall away in transparent sheaths. Sherlock Holmes sighed to feel the night air fill his lungs – **his** lungs – a pleasure that he had ill been able to afford of late. It was risky even now, but on these empty streets and under the cover of the night, he could ration himself a few short moments of lightness and ease.

Picking up his pace, he reflected on how much more pleasant an experience getting out of lock-up could be with Mycroft's help. Although his company in the cells had not been much improved... Sherlock rewound his scarf, adjusting it to cover new bruises on his jaw and neck. Some things could not be helped, he supposed. But as much as he hated to ask his brother for anything, this might be worth remembering for the future. He swallowed down his distaste and resolved not to delete the experience after all.

He was a few seconds late for the light at the first big intersection he reached, and as he waited to cross, a chill crept up the back of his neck, and he turned around to see that he was, indeed, being trailed: his pursuer (quite predictably), a luxury car just shy of ostentatious. Sherlock sighed. His first instinct was to ignore it and change his course, to make a sharp right and seek out a one-way street where cars couldn't follow, and lose them that way. But it was a long walk to John's flat and he could hardly take a cab there without attracting Moran's attention – a risk he didn't want to run right now – and he had no delusions about his ability to evade his brother's fleet on foot for any significant length of time.

In the glow of the streetlights, Sherlock could just make a feminine figure in the passenger seat, face cast downward, likely engaged in a mobile device or tablet judging from the angle of the neck. Anthea? It was curious to have her sitting in the front. The Queen must have decided that this crisis necessitated personal involvement. What an unappealing situation.

Sherlock still hoped to keep his brother in the dark to the furthest extent possible with regard to this matter (excepting, of course, the information necessary to protect John – and what _was_ Mycroft doing to ensure that his friend remained safe? Doubtless he had it covered, most likely a patrol and the ever-present CCTV, but still Sherlock couldn't help but feel that the task with which Mycroft was charged was too important for him to be out roaming the streets in some pretentious automobile like in those ridiculous spy movies John watched) but upon considering his options, it seemed that he had little choice but to take Mycroft up on his offer.

Just as Sherlock had resigned himself to getting in, the side door opened a crack, beckoning. He sighed in frustration and made his way to the kerb, opening the door the rest of the way and settling into the plush leather seats beside his older brother.

"Mycroft," he said, with as much detached dignity as he could muster. His brother had indeed aged, as one would obviously expect – though upon closer examination, he looked a bit older than three years seemed to warrant. But it did look like the diet was going well (very well, in fact; not only did Mycroft's waistline indicate that he had been successful in avoiding the dessert trolley, he looked healthy, and his hair and skin clearly showed that he was getting his vitamins) – the weight taunt wouldn't do, then. Pity. It had always been such an easy button to push.

"My dear brother," Mycroft spoke, and his voice was simultaneously saccharine and caustic to Sherlock's ears. "It's good to see you in the flesh again. You're looking well."

"Wish I could say the same," Sherlock bit back, knowing it was a lie and feeling certain that his brother could hear the hollowness behind his words.

Mycroft folded his well-manicured hands in his lap and smiled benignly. "Still as prickly as ever, I see," he observed. "Wouldn't want to let a few years as a recluse change us, now would we?"

Sherlock didn't have the patience for this game. "Where is John?" he asked. "Is he at his flat? What are you doing to protect him?"

"I've taken care of it; don't worry," replied Mycroft smoothly. "I don't suppose you've had the time to listen to my message, but I've made sure that Dr. Watson is perfectly safe... and of course you can rest assured that I've taken similar measures for the other two likely targets as well." The last part of this statement was delivered in a particularly biting tone, and it was obvious why, but Sherlock wasn't going to take the time to delve into it at this juncture.

Mycroft didn't appear keen to discuss it either, and he continued on as if nothing had been meant by it (though they both knew that no word to pass his lips was not carefully considered and measured). "I could take you to him, if you like," he offered. "Initially, I might have hesitated to do so, as I'm sure you'd prefer to avoid endangering his life unnecessarily, but upon further reflection, I admit that I must wonder whether you've got anywhere else to go."

Sherlock gritted his teeth and said nothing. The expression on his brother's face was not actually a sneer, although it may have in its heart of hearts aspired to be one. Mycroft was annoyed; he had never hesitated to make it clear how his younger brother's antics plagued him. He was still embarrassed to have been deceived by Sherlock's trick and frustrated to have been let in on the secret in the manner he was – via cryptic messages from the Homeless Network – and only then as a cog in Sherlock's plan, to start him off in his pursuit of Moriarty's men.

"To the good doctor's flat, then?" asked Mycroft, cocking his head. "Very well. Should any alternate destination come to mind, do be so kind as to inform me and I'll have the driver change course."

Sherlock didn't respond, and he intended to maintain his silence for the remainder of the journey. It stung Mycroft to be kept in the dark. There was no doubt that he had already found out quite a bit about Sherlock's situation (why else, then, would he have sent envoys to trail Sherlock, bumblers who tripped him up and exposed him to the risk of having his cover blown and the Work ruined?), but Sherlock was sure that no matter how hard he strove to hide it from his face and his voice and the set of his neck and shoulders, Mycroft still had questions that he desperately wanted resolved. But of course he couldn't ask – Mycroft could never admit to not knowing (or worse, to being unable to find out) – and Sherlock would steadfastly refuse to give him the satisfaction of answers. Mycroft would have to content himself with whatever information he could glean from his brother's outward appearance; Sherlock had nothing else for him, no matter how intently Mycroft was staring and trying to get his attention.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "You will permit me a word, dear brother?"

Sherlock's eyes darted futilely left and right and his mind raced, but it was clear that there was no escape to be had. Damn.

Rearranging himself in the spacious back seat (Sherlock was still getting used to how much less of Mycroft there was to rearrange), Mycroft adjusted his necktie and angled his posture toward Sherlock, leaning forward very slightly.

"I only want to express," he began before, "that I believe it may have been something of a blessing that Mummy did not have to go through all of this. It would likely have taken quite a toll on her." He cast his eyes downward and his voice dropped to a lower register. "To judge by my own experiences, that is."

Although he might often work to persuade outsiders to the contrary, it cannot be said that Sherlock Holmes was incapable of feeling. He may have admittedly experienced some difficulty in categorising or recognising individual emotions, but the past several years had seen a great deal more sentiment in his life than he ever would have expected, and he now found himself much better versed in these concepts than he once had been. But one advantage of keeping a relatively small circle of acquaintances was that it did tend to aid him in the categorisation of the less familiar emotions, those that did not often pop up in everyday life. Being able to associate one of these feelings with a certain person was useful in picking up or explaining the more puzzling aspects of the behaviour of normal humans. Sherlock found it incredibly beneficial indeed to be able to reference the tells exhibited by a suspect against his index and determine whether the emotion she displayed when speaking of the victim was closer to the mutual contempt and frustration in which he and Anderson held each other or to the disappointment and almost affectionate annoyance he felt when John was staring a conclusion in the face and simply refusing to _see_. In this way, he had discovered that – under the proper circumstances and in the right doses, of course – caring could very well be an advantage.

What Sherlock was feeling right now was not something that he often associated with Mycroft. It was not the desperate, all-undermining fear of inferiority or the need to prove and distinguish himself, nor was it exasperation, suffocation, or the infuriating imbalance of beholdenness and obligation. If anything, it was closest to (though still clearly distinct from) emotions he most often felt in regard to John. Realising oneself to be the object of another's concern and unconditional affection. Witnessing a selfless, altruistic feat of daring and acknowledging that some important gift had been given; desiring – not being required – to return in kind.

Sherlock knew there was only one way to do this and that there would not be another chance. Still, the words were blocky and cumbersome, and they didn't come easily. He had to virtually force them through his vocal chords. "I have given it considerable thought," he said hoarsely, "and I still cannot imagine why, despite his great intelligence and perception, Moriarty only planned for two snipers."

"Ah," Mycroft murmured softly, and he studied his hands as they shifted in his lap. He was silent for a moment, refusing to betray himself, to display any sign of emotion beyond what he already had. "It may be," he ventured finally, "that he assumed that my actions – which I now have the perspective to regret most deeply – gave him cause to assume a change in... the circumstances of our relationship."

Sherlock avoided meeting Mycroft's eyes. "If that was the case... rest assured that he was entirely mistaken."

Mycroft took a deep breath and let it out harshly. "My dear brother," he said, and the term carried none of its usual bitterness, none of the sarcasm. It was simply a statement of fact. Sherlock wanted to jump in then, to prevent Mycroft from venturing any further, but the words caught in his throat at first, and he had to swallow down a hard, sour lump and try again.

"Nothing more need be said, I'm sure," he whispered.

"Of course," Mycroft replied, sounding just as relieved as Sherlock felt. "But I would be remiss if I were to forget to welcome you home."

Sherlock nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. And so they sat, not speaking, not acknowledging the other, as the streetlit scenery of London rushed by outside, and if either breathed the slightest a sigh or allowed his features to twist and betray some sign of a softer man, he would have found his brother's senses uncharacteristically dulled, and such an offence, for once, would have gone entirely unnoticed.

–-

The second time that Sherlock climbed the stairs up to John's flat, he was able to skip the ones that he knew would creak. It was hardly the same level of familiarity he had once had with the seventeen steps up to 221B, but he felt a small flicker of satisfaction, a sense of ownership and belonging that he had missed sorely while he was away from London. He raised his hand and rapped his knuckles briskly against the wood.

But when he raised his hand to knock at the door once again, he felt a strange sense of hesitation that had not been there before. He quashed it down at y had), and rapped his knuckles briskly against the wood.

A moment later, there was John.

"Back in one piece, I see," John said to Sherlock with studied levity. He turned on his heel with military poise and gestured for them to come in.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said.

"Mycroft," replied John. "Bailed him out again, have you."

Mycroft had to have made some sort of response, surely, but it was lost to Sherlock, who was studying John. John. During their time at Baker Street, when Sherlock would meet John again after a separation, there would be a few short seconds of evaluation where Sherlock allowed his eyes to flicker across John's person and the gears would whir as he catalogued any and all manner of change that had taken place in his friend since they had last met. He had known to expect something similar upon their reunion, of course, but this... this was still too overwhelming. The changes in John were too great, their numbers too large, and the effort to process all of it at once made him feel as if there was a short-circuit in his brain, as if walls were popping up unbidden to block the pathways of his Mind Palace. This was the third time he had laid eyes on John since his return (though the first was only a brief glimpse followed by half an hour of clasping John's hand underneath the table and trying to calm the roaring of blood in his ears) but each time was as the first and his mind still refused to accept these changes on a more permanent basis. Sherlock was accustomed to constantly revising his theories based on newly acquired facts, but John was proving to be much more resistant to update, to recategorisation than the other data he chose to keep.

"Sherlock," said John, and it was the face he used when he was repeating himself. "Will you just _sit_ _down _for a moment? I'll get you cleaned up."

Sherlock took a seat on the couch, deliberately avoiding the spot around which John had set up the breaking and entering scene – clearly, that was John's place. Which would almost certainly, he realised too late as his thighs sank into the soft but threadbare cushions, make this spot the one where John's late wife had used to sit. Mycroft sat down as well, choosing the armchair perpendicular to the couch.

An open book lay, dog-eared, face down beside John's seat, but the telly was on – he must have been reading, but still feeling anxious enough to need the sound on for reassurance. On the screen, a young man in green tights with a goatee and a slight Australian accent (Tasmania or thereabouts, Sherlock guessed) was fencing an older man in a red and gold cape. It was in colour but still an old movie, late 30's or early 40's. The way the men fought was gratingly unrealistic; all those acrobatics and yet they still aimed not to break their opponent's defence but to clash their swords together. Mycroft reached for the remote and switched the sound off.

John soon returned with a first-aid kit in one hand and a bowl of warm water in the other. He deposited the former onto the middle sofa cushion and the latter gently into Sherlock's lap, and pushed the coffee table back a bit so he could kneel between Sherlock's calves. A few seconds later, his face was mere inches from Sherlock's and John was studying him intently without registering him, seeing only his bruises, and the scene was so familiar as to be jarring. Something twisted inside Sherlock's chest, leaving in its wake a resonant ache that he could not quite name.

Though John had changed significantly in many respects, Sherlock observed, the deliberate practicality of his movements, remained entirely unchanged. John was a good doctor. His focus when he set to a task, the decided course of action he dedicatedly followed, the quiet confidence in his expert hands, the way not one of his movements was wasted – all of these things made Sherlock's fingers itch to hold his violin again. He had often wondered what had become of that treasured possession since his Fall (he had long since given up fighting the way the word resonated through his head in Moriarty's voice), and although he hadn't touched any musical instrument since then, he could already hear the melody he would create from the way John moved as he swabbed gently at Sherlock's temple and jaw.

Sherlock watched the progression of knowledge in John's eyes as John catalogued how old some of these bruises and scrapes were, how frequently they had been repeated. He took the bowl from Sherlock's hands and set it on the table, rocking back on his heels to retrieve a tube of ointment from the first-aid kit, which, like John himself, was neat and compact and purposeful and prepared for any eventuality.

John squeezed a bit of the gel out onto his index and middle fingers (Sherlock noticed a new cross-hatching of scars on the palm of his left hand) and, biting his lip, leaned forward, arm extended. He began to apply the cool gel directly to Sherlock's skin, dabbing his fingers gently against a scrape that stretched across his cheek. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. He felt suddenly exposed – intolerably so – and he had to fight the surely not-good urge to inhale the scent of John's skin at his pulse, to bite at his fingers or take them into his mouth to fill all his senses with the data he had long been missing.

John leaned back and studied Sherlock's face from a distance. This time, their eyes met for a moment and Sherlock felt his pulse quicken. Maybe later there would be a time enough for him to drink in the sight of John, to dedicate himself fully to learning every new line in John's face, the evident tension in his neck and jaw, but now was not that time. There was a curious heat in his stomach, a prickling beneath his skin, but he tried fastidiously to ignore it.

As with Mycroft, however, there were more new lines in John's face than there ought to be, than John should rightly have earned in the time that had passed. One could surmise that those years had been harder ones than most. Sherlock didn't want to allow himself to dwell on this, not now, but once he was aware of it, he could see that John's experiences were laid out there for the taking, revealing themselves to him one after another in the tilt of an eyebrow, a curve of the lip, and surely – if he reached out his hand – John's skin would yield the rest beneath his touch.

From the armchair, Mycroft cleared his throat, and Sherlock realised that he had been holding his breath. He tried to let it out as inconspicuously as possible – slowly and naturally through his nose – but part of him was sure that he had already been found out.

"Please forgive my abruptness, but I believe we have much to discuss and little time for it. If you are finished tending to my brother's injuries, perhaps we could set about it presently." Mycroft crossed his legs and leaned back in the armchair.

Giving an affirmative, John rose from his spot on the floor and settled onto the couch beside Sherlock. He sat up straight, letting his wrists cross in his lap, and waited for Mycroft to begin.

"As you are aware, my brother was unable – or perhaps unwilling – to avoid being apprehended in the fiasco that you witnessed yesterday." Mycroft addressed John, flashing a sideways glance at Sherlock. "Military personnel promptly discovered the corpse in the office where I presume you had your appointment, and they did not hesitate to contact the authorities. I was, however, able to provide an irrefutable alibi for Sherlock's whereabouts until the time his appearance at your flat, and – thanks to a prior... _debt_ owed to me by a local law enforcement official – they were soon persuaded to release him from custody and reconsider their theories as to the murder of Lieutenant Colonel Geoffrey Nguyen."

Mycroft paused and turned his attention to Sherlock. "Speaking of which, baby brother, I must remark upon how lucky you are that mistakenly killing this man only served to make you aware that you were outnumbered. I shudder to think what would have happened to Doctor Watson if you had dispatched of this Nguyen and then come out of hiding straight away as you seem to have planned," Mycroft said, shaking his head.

Sherlock could feel colour rising in his cheeks and anger in his chest but he suppressed his outward reaction as best he could.

"Really, Sherlock," Mycroft continued. "I did notice that the records had been doctored specifically to this end, but I could hardly believe that you'd be taken in by such amateur work."

Sherlock caught a slight movement out of the corner of his eye. John was shifting in his seat, visibly annoyed with Mycroft and itching to object. Sherlock was taken aback by the wave of emotion he felt at this site – to know that John's faith in his abilities was still unshaken, to see John prepared, as ever, to leap to his defence. But Mycroft continued on briskly, and there was no time for John to speak up or for Sherlock to process this rush of feeling.

"Even for his most recognisable exploits," Mycroft said, removing a folder from his briefcase with a rustle of paper, "while they did make some effort to edit the coverage made by major news outlets, it appears that they quite forgot the smaller papers entirely."

He leaned forward to hand John and Sherlock identical copies of an old article from a Suffolk newspaper called The Beccles and Bungay Journal. The headline read "MILITARY MAN SAVES DAY IN TIGER SEWER NIGHTMARE," and it was followed by a picture of a young man – decidedly not Nguyen, though he must have been about the same age when the picture was taken – standing beside a large cage, looking quite smug. His clothing was dated and his bearing military. His light eyes, which stood out against tan skin, squinted as if facing bright sunlight, and a thick moustache drew the attention toward a pair of thin lips. Was the paper creased, or...? Sherlock rubbed his thumb across the line and no – that was a scar crossing the bridge of Moran's nose.

To have been deceived at all was unacceptable, but for them to have hidden away someone with such recognisable facial features (and for Mycroft, of all people, to find him out) was simply unbearable. Sherlock gritted his teeth very slightly and committed the new face to memory, cursing himself and his brother.

Mycroft tutted and leaned back in his chair. "Dreadful affair. Escaped from its cage and somehow found its way into a drainpipe – just like the Eliot poem, you'll note. Resulted in mass hysteria, of course. Moran crawled in after it, cornered it, and managed to come away with his life, God knows how."

John was looking at the article with no small amount of amusement. It was an unusual enough story, Sherlock supposed, and probably quite appealing to someone with John's tastes in horrendous action movies.

"I supposed that you wouldn't have heard about this matter, Dr. Watson," Mycroft stated. "I believe you would have been in the early stages of your military training when it took place. Hard to keep up with the news at a time like that, I'd imagine."

"Yes," John said hesitantly, and he frowned, knitting his brow – trying, doubtless, to weigh the image of the disciplined, stoic colonel whom he had met against the reckless lunacy of pursuing a jungle cat through a sewer. "That is Moran, though," he remarked. "A bit younger, but I recognise him."

"I'm sure," replied Mycroft drolly. "Rather distinctive-looking fellow, is he not?" He cast a sideways glance at Sherlock, who had already looked away in anticipation.

"In any case," Mycroft continued, placing a pair of manila folders on the coffee table, "I will leave the full files here for the two of you to review, but what we must take away from all this is that my brother's assumption that it was safe to return home was a premature one. There still remain men who are loyal to Moran – to Moriarty – and are willing to assist in this scheme, and you cannot count yourselves safe until we have found out who they are and settled upon a way to stay their hands."

"So what is the plan, then?" asked John. "What are our options here?"

Though he must have known that Sherlock had already guessed, Mycroft was hesitant to speak his answer aloud. He cleared his throat.

"I believe that our best hope under these circumstances... is to maintain the appearance of normalcy and allow your presence here to lure them out into the open."

John just looked at him. "Bait," he said flatly.

"If you must put it bluntly, yes."

Sherlock winced inwardly. How many times before had John served just that purpose – kidnapped, drugged, or simply grabbed and immobilised with the threat of a knife or a gun or a vest of Semtex – at the hands of someone who had stumbled upon the best way to ensure Sherlock's cooperation? John's prowess as a fighter, as a doctor, his quick wits and sharp instincts were all ignored and he was treated simply as a bargaining piece, a lure, a decoy. And now in the space of a few short days, he had discovered that this was the case not only for the mission for which he had been selected but also on the part of Sherlock and Mycroft, his supposed allies. But John's expression remained blank under Sherlock's scrutiny; he was saving his ire and frustration, putting aside such foibles because he recognised the merit of this plan.

"All right," John said gravely, nodding. "So we wait here – both of us?"

"In principle, yes," agreed Mycroft. "I have already engaged a team for the protection and surveillance of this flat, as I'm sure you will have noticed. They are certainly capable of providing protection for the two of you individually, but as there is no real advantage in separating you, I plan to concentrate our resources in one place." He raised an eyebrow and gave what, on a less diplomatic man, would have been a smirk. "I'm sure that you both will prefer it that way in any case."

John did not rise to the taunt and Sherlock strove to follow his example.

"Now what steps," asked Mycroft "ought to be taken to this end? What must be done to convince them that nothing is amiss?"

Sherlock spoke up. "I've already emailed Nguyen and Moran from John's account. My message informs them that his sister has agreed to enter a treatment program and that he is therefore free to leave London for the mission. It also asks what actions they would like him to take. There has been a response from Moran confirming its receipt and promising further details soon."

John was staring at him. "Haven't you just got out of gaol?" He asked incredulously. "And how did you know my –"

"Hmm. Inconclusive but hardly an encouraging answer." Mycroft responded to Sherlock, ignoring John.

"So what then?" interrupted John. "We wait here and hope that Moran or someone shows up. Then, your men will," he gesticulated, "spring the trap, I suppose, and you'll take it from there."

"That is the gist of it, yes," Mycroft confirmed. "But regretfully, Dr. Watson, due to the nature of my position, it is necessary that I make every effort to stay aboveboard in my dealings –"

Sherlock snorted. Loudly. If it sounded like he couldn't have suppressed it (as if he could have been arsed to try), all the better.

Mycroft ignored him pointedly. "...to the furthest extent possible," he finished."

John fixed Mycroft with his gaze, not fully trusting him and decidedly unwilling to parse through layers of courtesy and pretty words to get at the truth. It could be quite intimidating, Sherlock remembered, to be on the other end of that stare. But to direct it at Mycroft Holmes with no trepidation? John really was a singular man.

"So what exactly are you trying to say?" John asked impatiently. "You're not telling us that you can't do anything, are you? Due process of law and all that."

Mycroft was silent.

John's eyes narrowed. "Are you serious?" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry if this offends you, Mycroft, but it's just that you always act like you're so bloody far _above_ all that! And you're going to ask us to just _wait_ here when you need a fucking judge and jury before you can so much as lift a finger to save our lives!?"

Mycroft pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, waiting out John's **outburst**. All the while, his face remained a perfectly placid mass of "Are you quite done?" – after all, one did not rise to the heights that Mycroft Holmes had by allowing oneself to engage, by permitting attacks to register on an emotional level.

"Under ordinary circumstances, Dr. Watson, you would doubtless find my capabilities more than satisfactory. At the moment, however, I'm afraid that my hands are quite tied – unless, that is, you're prepared for the government to learn of my brother's return. Unless you would have me cite the necessity of protecting the two of you from a three-years deceased criminal as the underlying reason for the carnage that will no doubt ensue, I must be somewhat more modest in my actions than usual. We cannot risk attracting undue attention – in fact, we can ill afford the spectacle of the force that I have already provided – if Sherlock wishes to remain in hiding. But if we are able to catch Moran and his men in the act and I have the proper justification, I assure you that you will not find my treatment of them in any way _lacking_."

For the briefest second, Mycroft's eyes drifted in Sherlock's direction – possibly unconsciously, possibly calculated. The glance was just barely long enough to be noticeable, but Sherlock registered something in John's expression softening slightly. Mycroft. Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"All right," John repeated. "So you need to catch them red-handed. We'll do what we can to help you with that."

Mycroft nodded politely. "Thank you for your understanding, Dr. Watson." He readied himself to stand, casting a cursory glance at his wristwatch. "It is already quite late," he said, "and nothing is to be gained from further discussion at this early juncture. Once we have more information, we can consult again and proceed accordingly." Brushing off his trousers, Mycroft rose. "For now, I shall be off. Thank you for your hospitality."

Sherlock remained silent and John bid him a half-hearted goodnight but did not get up to see him out. When Mycroft reached the door, however, he paused momentarily before turning his head to address them again.

"Oh, and Dr. Watson?" he enquired, and Sherlock grimaced. Trust his brother to wring every ounce of drama from a simple departure. (Come to think of it, John had always laughed when Sherlock criticised his brother's penchant for theatrics, though it was hard to imagine why.)

"I do hope that I don't leave you any cause for doubt this time." Mycroft's expression was carefully controlled but his voice was somewhat strained. "This matter is of the utmost importance to me and I doubt that I shall think of anything else until it has been safely resolved."

John nodded, blinking lightly, not entirely sure how to respond.

Mycroft swallowed. "I am a different man than the one you knew three years ago," he said softly. He drew in a breath and let it out quietly. "Goodnight to you both," he said with a nod, and he was gone.

The door closed behind him and John waited for the retreat of his footsteps before turning to Sherlock. "That was an apology, wasn't it?" he asked, incredulous. He didn't wait for a response. "From two Holmeses in as many days?" he marvelled, leaning back. "Never thought I'd live to see it..."

Sherlock made a vague noise, but offered no comment.

"He did have one for you, didn't he?" John asked, suddenly changing track.

"He did," Sherlock answered curtly, and John didn't pry beyond that.

"I suppose that's all right then," he concluded, and seeing perhaps the low probability of further discussion on the subject, he redirected his attention toward the telly. The earlier program had ended, transitioning into a children's cartoon featuring anthropomorphic mice in foolish hats. They were accompanied by a large, jowly dog, but rather than appear alarmed at the presence of a predator, they seemed bent upon using the animal for transportation. Its floppy ears suddenly folded and bent in a geometric configuration, forming a staircase by which they summarily alighted. John appeared slightly amused but soon took the remote in his hand.

"Unless you're enjoying this?" he offered. Sherlock shook his head and John switched it off.

"It's better than what they've got on in the daytime," Sherlock remarked, finding his voice. "Unless that's changed while I've been gone."

John gave a surprised laugh. "Not bloody likely," he answered. "Crying shame, too." He then, lapsed into thoughtful silence for a few moments, and when he spoke again, his voice was gentle, carefully avoiding accusation. "Sherlock... three years _is_ a long time, you know."

Sherlock could feel John's eyes upon him, studying. Yet he did not chafe under John's gaze as he did with Mycroft; it was easier, in fact, to return it than to look away. And when John's eyes met his, they were the same slate grey, and they were filled with the same acceptance and intent to understand as always. The face and clothes and hair may have changed, the man may have been grown older and sadder, but this was unmistakably his John. Sherlock felt a sensation of settling, not unlike tectonic plates, but more gentle as they shifted into place. He felt lighter somehow, confirming that the past few years had been worth it, that his efforts – however much pain they had caused – were not something he would regret.

"It's hard to get used to," John said, his voice perfectly level, his tone conversational. "Seeing you again." He shifted slightly in his seat to face Sherlock.

Sherlock tilted his head inquisitively and John was quick to respond. "Not a bad thing, of course – I just can't quite believe you're here, that's all."

"Ah," said Sherlock, and took a moment to weigh his answer. "I understand what you mean," he ventured. "It should pass soon enough, in all likelihood. Though I imagine it may take longer for you, given the difference in expectations during our separation."

John let out a small huff of breath – laughter? Not entirely off base, but there was a subtle difference that made Sherlock think that that was not quite it.

"That's one way to put it," John mused. He gave his head a little shake, trying to dispel... what? Unwanted thoughts? An emotional fugue?

He struck his palms against his thighs, forcing energy into his voice. "Shall I make us some tea, then?" he offered, getting to his feet.

"All right," Sherlock responded, drawing his bare feet up onto the couch. He listened as John filled up the kettle in the other room. It was no surprise that John still had not switched to an electric one. For him, a daily habit was as much a ritual as a means to an end. Filling the kettle, the boiling and waiting, the shrill whistle calling him back to the kitchen were all parts of a rite, a ceremony that gave affirmation and comfort. And, for that matter, most electric kettles couldn't make tea as hot as John liked it.

Sherlock heard John getting out the milk and sugar and then came his voice. "Still take it the same?"

"Yes," Sherlock called back, and then unconsciously, "Thanks!" He startled as the word passed his lips unbidden. To be honest, he couldn't quite remember the last time he would have said it, but here, sitting comfortably on a couch, hearing John at work in the next room, he had responded like Pavlov's dogs to a bell.

After a few seconds of silence, John spoke up again. "You know, I had a lot of dreams about this." His voice sounded oddly flat, disconnected. Sherlock turned to look at him, but saw that John was standing so that his face was obscured by the dishware cabinet, an ancient, protruding monstrosity with a fresh coat of cheap, white paint. Clearly the topic John intended to introduce was a sensitive one.

"About making tea?" enquired Sherlock blithely. Often he found that nothing was more effective in weaselling out painful information than an egregiously wrong guess.

"About you, you wanker," John shot back with a laugh. Sherlock blinked. Of course, there was always the risk that his guess would be taken as a joke. The probability of this seemed to be particularly high where John was concerned. Although it certainly could be the case that John simply recognised his interrogation techniques – Sherlock had seen John employ them more than once to some effect – and refused to be taken in by them.

John was rummaging through the silverware drawer now, with the cabinet door still open (sloppy, uncharacteristic), though how long it seemed to be taking to locate one spoon, Sherlock couldn't believe (deflection mechanism, obviously).

"About you coming back," corrected John in that eerily casual voice that left Sherlock ill at ease.

"Ah," he responded. His voice wasn't very loud. He was unsure whether it would carry to the other room.

"Only once in a while. Not all that often," John amended. "But every time..." He was cut off by the trilling of the kettle and he turned to remove it from the heat, lifting it carefully with one hand. "Every time," he continued softly, "I just couldn't quite seem to get it through my head."

Sherlock said nothing but all his attention was focused on John, who had diligently set about making the tea, busying his hands as he spoke.

"The first time I had one, I had no idea I was dreaming, of course. I don't usually. But anyway, it was actually a church I found you in – somewhere we'd been for a case, I don't really recall – but why there of all places, I've no idea. But I was just so happy to see you that I ran right up to you and hugged you. And I was asking where you had been and how you had done it and telling you how glad I was to see you. And you hugged me back and you were laughing – it was _your_ laugh, too; it was... I heard it, in my dream. It couldn't have been anything else. It was uniquely yours and I'd have known it anywhere. And then you let me go and you stepped back you smiled, and then you just walked away until I couldn't see you anymore and you didn't turn around."

John tossed the used teabags in the bin and gave his hands a quick rinse under the tap. Steam rose in wisps from the two cups.

"A lot of people have dreams like that, after they lose someone," he reflected, drying his hands on the dish towel. "And of course it's just wish fulfillment – how could it be anything else, really? – but it helps them to come to terms with it all, to realise that no matter what else has happened, that person isn't suffering... And a lot of them take it as a sign and use it to help get on with their lives. So I thought that's what it was, and so I was grateful for it. I mean, I don't believe in ghosts or angels – and I'm positive you don't either – but if anyone could have figured it out, how to communicate from the other side, it would have been you, so I just let myself..."

John's voice trailed off. Sherlock knew John better than anyone could (though, to be fair, one could say the same for his knowledge of most people, but that spoke more to the average man's stupidity and blindness than to the overwhelming repository of data on John he had collected) and he knew John was not given to philosophising or monologues. This story was something of an outlier and Sherlock planned to listen intently.

"Foolish, I guess," murmured John, shaking his head. Sherlock refrained from commenting on that. John returned the milk to its place, and when the refrigerator door was closed, he began to speak again.

"And then I had the next one," he said quietly, standing facing the refrigerator, in a voice so low that Sherlock had to strain to hear him. "And I was so damn happy that time, too. And the time after that..." John pursed his lips, casting his eyes downward.

"I could never realise that I was just dreaming, and I never remembered – dream-me never recognised that I'd dreamt exactly the same thing before. And then in the morning, I'd realise it, of course... But then, little by little..." The lines in John's face stood out as he swallowed like he tasted something bitter, and he stopped and reframed his thought. "The thing is, Sherlock, I never did figure it out. Every time, I was so happy to see you, still bubbling over with excitement and asking you everything I could think of."

_"You_ were the one who changed, Sherlock. You'd still be there with me – and I saw you in so many different places, too, all over London – and you'd stay and you'd talk with me, but the whole time, you'd just keep staring at me like I should have figured it out by now, like 'Why don't you _see_?'"

John's voice was thick and choked, but his words washed over Sherlock like watercolours, painting before his eyes a picture of the damned obstinacy of John's hope, the curse of his belief. One after another, the details of John's story committed themselves to his memory, and combined with his knowledge of John, he felt almost as if the experience had been his own; he could have moved inside John's dreams, slip through their backdrops as easily as he could the streets of London.

The mug of tea (the wedding china put away now) made a soft clink as John set it on the table, and Sherlock felt the cushions shift and there was John sitting beside him on the sofa. He pulled his knees up in an imitation of Sherlock's posture and brought his own mug to his lips to blow, although there was no longer any steam.

"But I'm not entirely sure how I knew it was real this time," John said softly, taking a small sip. "In the dreams, I'd always thought I was awake, hadn't I? And in movies, people are always pinching themselves to make sure something's real, but I haven't felt that way, not for a second." He took another sip and savoured the taste as he swallowed. "I could be crazy, I guess. Like I've finally snapped and made all of this up, right? But I know I'm not."

Sherlock swallowed and stared down into his tea. He had acted out of caring – that damnable weakness – to save John greater pain, but he had understood enough to know that John would still suffer. But now he truly saw what effect it had truly had on John, what John had gone through, and he knew now how much he owed John (though he had already owed John a debt he could never repay – that was the reason any of this had happened to begin with), now he understood the depth of his friend's devotion. There was nothing Sherlock could add, not really, no comfort he could offer beyond this simple fact of his existence and his deep regret. All he could do was hope to distract.

"Would you like to know how I did it?" he whispered.

John regarded at him appraisingly, grey eyes oddly calm as he considered the question.

"You said you did it to save my life," he said, finally. It didn't sound like a question, but Sherlock nodded. "What did you mean by that?"

Sherlock spoke carefully. Self-possessed and articulate as he had always been, it was not often that he chose his words beforehand. He doubted that in his lifetime there would be another statement he had thought over so much, simple though his words may be. "Moriarty would have had you killed," he said. "You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. He had snipers on each of you and that's how he forced me to jump."

It was John's turn to stare, at a loss for words. He was looking at Sherlock very closely and it quickly became apparent that he was blinking rather more than usual. His breathing was slow and deliberate but his face was doing something very difficult to interpret. Normally, Sherlock could read John like a book but here all he could do was study him, with the strange sensation of being on the wrong side of a mirror, wondering what John was seeing in Sherlock's face and feeling a little dizzy that he did not know.

But John, as usual, did not speak until he was sure he could mask whatever he was feeling. "I see," he said softly, and he set his mug down on the table. "You look absolutely knackered, Sherlock," he added evenly. "And I am, too, to be perfectly honest. So why don't we let that be enough for now, and you can tell me the rest another day?"

Sherlock was startled. John had always asked how he did it as if it were a magic trick, had gleefully followed his explanations like a bedtime story – of course he wanted to hear how Sherlock had survived. But – and perhaps John's perception was to be commended – Sherlock was not sure that he had the strength to explain this trick at the moment, knowing what he knew now, understanding all too acutely how John had felt in his absence. "All right," he said, nodding gratefully.

"Great," replied John, setting down his tea, and then he hesitated. Something flickered across his face and he knitted his brows. "Could you... just stay with me for a while?" he asked, and Sherlock gave another nod, suddenly feeling the full extent of his exhaustion. He hadn't slept in lock-up – it hadn't been safe to let his guard down, leave himself defenceless – and without a case to render his physical status irrelevant, he found himself shackled by his body's needs.

"Thanks," said John quietly, and moved, with a self-deprecating smile, a little closer to Sherlock, reaching out to put an arm around his neck, a steadying hand on his shoulder. Sherlock let out a painful breath –one he didn't even realise he had been holding – and allowed his head to fall forward, allowed John to pull him close. He slumped bonelessly against his friend's chest, registering the pressure of John's cheek against the top of his head, and there it was – there was everything that had kept him alive, that had pushed him forward – and he breathed in the warmth of John's body, and it wasn't long until he surrendered to his exhaustion, with only John's breath in his ears.

・ Many thanks to the wise Piplover, who was kind enough to call me out on my lack of knowledge of UK gun laws. I tried to cover my ass in this chapter, but I know nothing about anything, so please educate me!

・ Sigerson's first name is Jeremy in homage to h3rring and makokitten's lovely The Sigerson Letters (which just go read it already!). I thought the name was canon for a while, though.

・ John's dreams are actually mine. I was hesitant to just insert them and struggled with posting something so personal, but ultimately, I'm glad I wrote it. I never would have been able to talk about them otherwise (I still can't imagine talking about it out loud), and looking at them through John's eyes has helped me understand that even if I keep having these dreams for the rest of my life, it's because part of me will never give up on my dear friend. KS, there are no words to describe how much I miss and love you still and always.

・The two movies referenced are The Adventures of Robin Hood with my boy Errol Flynn and The Great Mouse Detective.

・Wow, tons of notes. Sorry. Any feedback, good or bad, is welcomed with open arms!


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